Chapter 16
Pauline
That night, we lay on his couch in the dark.
The city glittered beyond the glass wall. My head was in his lap, my legs stretched across the cushions, and his fingers moved through my curls with that absent, rhythmic gentleness that made my entire scalp tingle.
On the television, a documentary about a woman who vanished from an Alaskan fishing village was playing in low, measured tones.
True crime. Our thing. The thing that had started everything, back when he’d sat beside me on a college couch and watched my face more than the screen.
“It’s the husband,” Jack said.
“It’s always the husband.”
“No, but this time—the insurance policy. He doubled it six months before she disappeared.”
“Suspicious but not conclusive.”
“And the boat.” His fingers stilled in my hair. “Did you see his face when they asked about the boat?”
I tilted my head back to look up at him. “You’re really invested in—”
The words died in my throat.
He wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. He was looking at me—eyes dark and focused with an intensity that made my pulse kick up, made heat bloom low in my stomach. That look. I knew that look. That was the look that had gotten me into trouble in college more times than I could count.
“We’re finishing this documentary,” I deadpanned.
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it got worse—or better, depending on your perspective. His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered there, then traced down my throat to where my pulse was doing something embarrassing and visible.
“Jack. I’m serious.” I tried to sound firm. “We are watching this all the way through. We never finished a single documentary in college because you—” I gestured vaguely at his face. “You’d get that look and then we’d miss the entire second half and I’d have to rewatch it alone later.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His voice was perfectly innocent. His hand, however, had abandoned my hair and was now trailing down my arm—slow, deliberate, leaving heat in its wake.
“That exact look. The one you’re doing right now.”
“I’m just watching the documentary.”
“You haven’t looked at the TV in three minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re not thinking about the documentary.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking about?” His fingers found the inside of my wrist, traced the delicate skin there, and I felt my breath hitch.
“Because I can feel what you’re thinking about.” I tried to shift away but his other hand settled on my hip, holding me in place. Not forcefully—just enough to let me know he didn’t want me moving.
“Jack. Those eyes aren’t going to work on me tonight.”
“What eyes?”
“The eyes you’re making right now.”
“I’m not making eyes. This is just my face.”
“This is not your normal face. This is your ‘I’m about to make you forget what we’re watching’ face, and we are not—” I sucked in a breath as his hand slid under the hem of my shirt, palm warm against my stomach.
“We’re not doing this. The documentary. The missing woman. We need to see how it ends.”
“Mmm.” His thumb traced slow circles just above my waistband. Not moving higher. Not moving lower. Just existing there, making me conscious of every nerve ending in my body.
“I know how it ends,” he murmured. “The husband did it. Boat accident. Insurance money. We’ve seen this before.”
“That’s not—you don’t know that for sure.” My voice was less steady than I wanted it to be. “There could be a twist.”
“There’s no twist.”
“There’s always a twist.”
His hand slid higher—just slightly, just enough to make my stomach tighten, my breath come shorter. His eyes never left my face, watching every reaction with the focus of someone conducting an extremely important experiment.
“Jack Specter, if you don’t stop—”
“Stop what?” His voice was infuriatingly calm. “I’m just sitting here. Watching the documentary. With my girlfriend.”
“Your hand is under my shirt.”
“Is it?” He glanced down like he’d only just noticed. “Huh. So it is.”
I tried to glare at him. It was extremely difficult to glare at someone when their thumb was doing things that made coherent thought nearly impossible. “We had a deal. Sunday nights are documentary nights. We watch the whole thing. No distractions.”
“I’m not distracted.” His other hand slid up my thigh—still over my jeans, nothing inappropriate, but the intent was clear. “I can multitask.”
“You’re not even looking at the screen.”
“I’m a very visual learner. I learn better by touch.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” His fingers traced the seam of my jeans, and my hips rolled forward without permission, betraying me completely.
The documentary narrator was saying something about search parties.
About the timeline. The evidence found near the shore but I wasn’t processing any of it.
Jack’s hands were everywhere and nowhere at once—never quite where I wanted them, always keeping me on edge, building tension with the patience of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
“This isn’t fair,” I managed. “You’re driving me insane.”
“I’m just watching TV.” But his mouth curved, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re the one who seems distracted.”
I was going to kill him. Or kiss him. The options were equally appealing.
His hand traced down my ribs, over my hip, along my outer thigh. Then back up. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to map every inch of me through my clothes while pretending to care about maritime law and insurance fraud.
“I’m just sitting here, Pauline. You’re the one who keeps moving.”
I was. I was shifting restlessly against him, my body arching into his touches without conscious thought, my breathing too fast, my skin too hot.
“This is your fault,” I accused.
“How is this my fault?”
“You and your—” I gestured vaguely at all of him. “Your everything. Your hands and your face and your—”
I gave up on words and kissed him.
I grabbed his face, pulled him down, and kissed him hard, all the pent-up frustration of the last twenty minutes pouring out in one fierce, desperate press of mouth against mouth.
He made a sound—surprised, pleased, triumphant—and then his hands were on me properly, no more teasing, no more patience, just heat and need and seven years of wanting compressed into this single moment.
I pulled back just long enough to shift into his lap, straddling him properly, and his hands found my hips and yanked me closer and—
“What about the documentary?” he murmured against my mouth, and I could feel him smiling.
“Shut up and finish what you started.”
He laughed—low and rough—and then his mouth was on my throat and my hands were in his hair and somewhere in the background the documentary was still playing but neither of us cared anymore, and really, we never had.
The husband did it. We’d been right all along.
The days that followed fell into a rhythm I hadn’t expected—easy, comfortable. But by Tuesday, I’d run out of excuses for wearing Jack’s t-shirts.
“I need real clothes,” I announced, standing in his kitchen in one of his button-downs that hit me mid-thigh. “I can’t go to work dressed like I raided a CEO’s closet.”
“You could.” He was leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching me with that expression that suggested he was extremely okay with me wearing his clothes indefinitely. “I think it’s a good look.”
“Your shirts are not professional attire.” I said with a roll of my eyes.
“They could be. I’ll make it a company policy. I’m the boss,” He said smugly.
“You’re ridiculous.” I grabbed my bag. “I’m going home. I need my own clothes and to check on my apartment before my pigeon files a missing person report.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m driving you.”
There was no point arguing. Twenty minutes later, we were at my apartment—which looked exactly as sad as I remembered, but somehow less depressing now that Jack was seeing it with me.
I’d barely gotten my key in the lock when the door across the hall flew open.
Meatball exploded into the hallway like a grey missile.
“Meatball, no—” Candy’s voice came from inside her apartment, but it was too late.
A hundred pounds of pure joy and questionable breath slammed into me. I staggered backward, and would have fallen if Jack hadn’t caught my elbow.
And suddenly I was leaning with an armful of ecstatic dog doing his level best to lick every inch of my face.
“Hi, buddy,” I laughed, trying to fend off his tongue. “Yes, I missed you too. Yes, you’re a good boy. No, you cannot lick inside my mouth—Meatball, that’s disgusting—”
He was doing the thing where his entire backend wagged instead of just his tail, his paws scrabbling against my legs, his tongue finding every available inch of skin. I was laughing too hard to properly defend myself.
When I finally managed to push him back enough to breathe, I looked up and found Jack staring at me.
His expression was somewhere between amazed and utterly confused, like he’d just watched me perform a magic trick he couldn’t figure out.
“What?” I said, still scratching behind Meatball’s ears while he leaned his entire weight against my legs.
“You were terrified of dogs.”
“I was.” I looked down at Meatball, who was gazing up at me with those soulful eyes that suggested he’d never known a bad day in his life. “This one stole my heart.”
Meatball chose that moment to lunge forward again, his tongue catching me right on my cheek.
“Okay, buddy, that’s—” I was laughing, trying to duck away. “That’s enough—”
“Hey.” Jack’s voice was firm. Commanding. He was glaring at Meatball with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostile board members. “Pauline is mine. Get your tongue off her.”
I swatted his arm. “Don’t talk to him like that!”
“He’s licking your face.”
“He’s affectionate!”
“He’s being inappropriate.”
“He’s a good boy.” I gave Meatball’s head a vigorous rub, and his tail went into overdrive. “Yes you are. Yes you are. Don’t listen to the mean man.”
“I’m not mean. I’m establishing boundaries.”
“With a dog.”
“He needs to know there are rules.”
Meatball, sensing he’d become the subject of debate, decided the best course of action was to lick Jack’s hand.
Jack looked down at him. Meatball looked up at Jack, tail wagging, tongue lolling out in a grin that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Don’t try to win me over,” Jack told him. “I’m not falling for it.”
Meatball’s tail wagged harder.
“Jack.” I was trying not to laugh. “You’re arguing with a dog.”
“He started it.”
Candy appeared in her doorway, arms crossed, watching the entire scene with an expression of profound amusement. She caught my eye and gave me a look—knowing, a little smug, the kind of look that said “I see exactly what’s happening here and I approve.”
I felt my face heat.
“Sorry about Meatball,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “He gets excited when his favorite person comes home.”
“His favorite person is supposed to be you,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, well.” She shrugged. “You’re more interesting. Also you give him cheese.”
“One time!”
“One time was enough. You’re his now.” She whistled. “Come on, Meatball. Let’s give the lovebirds some space.”
Meatball gave me one last adoring look, licked my hand, and trotted back to Candy’s apartment with his tail still wagging.
The door clicked shut behind them.
I looked up at Jack. He was watching me with that expression again—soft, a little dazed.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. Just—” He shook his head. “You’re different with him. With Meatball.”
“Different how?”
“Happy.” He tucked a curl behind my ear. “I like seeing you like that.”
My throat went tight. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just took his hand and led him into my apartment, and if I held on a little tighter than necessary, he didn’t mention it.